


Hidden Things

by Elysium (Elysium66)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Disguise, F/M, Polyjuice Potion, Room of Requirement Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 20:52:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6675088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elysium66/pseuds/Elysium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a secret part of the castle circumstance and desperation throw two people together. And the ramifications for one of them could be extraordinary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hidden Things

The room was a vast cavern of secrets. It was a hall of towering shelves which threatened to topple, spilling their contents of books and trinkets and debris. The hidden space had assisted many a Hogwarts student in the school’s long and coloured history - and more than one professor too. It was a room of requirement and it went by many names. 

Today, and for one young man who stood small amid the expanse of shelves, it was called the Room of Hidden Things. And there were some moments, not unlike that very one, in which he wished he could remain hidden there too. He couldn’t though. Draco Malfoy knew that much rested on his shoulders. 

Tucked away near the centre of the room, there stood a large and handsome mahogany cabinet. The wooden structure was well beyond its prime, the toll of wear and tear visible in the scratches and scrapes which littered its burnished façade. 

The youngest of the Mafoys ran stiff and pale fingers over the brass knob which adorned the very front of the cabinet. He stole a quick breath for posterity, before pulling the door open to reveal what lay beyond. And, just as it had so many times before, his heart clenched and the breath expelled with a gust from his body. 

It was empty. 

Slamming the cabinet door closed again, the boy lashed out with his left arm, toppling the debris from a nearby shelf, which caused a cloud of residual dust to rise up around him. Draco had hoped that, after the success of his last test run, the apple would be sitting primly in the centre of wooden flooring, ready to prove to him that he was on the right track. 

The fear that he wasn’t consumed him.

Draco Malfoy had spent the better part of his entire sixth year at Hogwarts variously holed up in the Room of Hidden Things, attempting to divine the secrets of the Vanishing Cabinet and its twin, or reading tomes of ancient texts which he prayed would impart some small but helpful clue. He hadn’t given up hope, and yet time was continuing to sift through his fingertips. 

It hadn’t taken the youngest Malfoy very long after being given his assignment to ascertain the best way to secret the various Death Eaters into the safe knell of Hogwarts. He had recalled the unfortunate incident which befell his house mate, Montague, who had spent months on end the previous year traversing the vast space of nothingness between the twin cabinets. They acted as portals when they functioned properly. One could easily slip into his cabinet and be spirited away to another location – wherever the second cabinet was hidden. 

Draco had enjoyed the irony of twisting the cabinets to his purpose. So had the Dark Lord. Originally they had been used during the height of the war, as a quick escape for those who feared the Dark Lord’s vengeance. Should Death Eaters come to the man’s home, he could escape quickly and safely. But now, if Draco was successful, they would be used to transport the hierarchy of Death Eaters from Borgin and Burke’s store on Knockturn Alley – where the second was kept – and the Room of Hidden Things in Hogwarts. It was the only way to safely enter the school without setting off the various wards established by the school’s rightfully paranoid Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. 

He was right to be paranoid because he was the sole reason for this mission to take place. The elder wizard had been a proverbial thorn in the side of He Who Must Not Be Named ever since his childhood. And the Dark Lord wanted that obstacle permanently removed from his path. 

He had chosen Draco for the task, much to the horror of his mother, Narcissa Malfoy. She believed the act of giving such a task to a 16 year old boy could only be as punishment for the mistakes her husband, Lucius had made in his years of service to the Dark Lord. 

Draco tended to agree with her. He hadn’t at first. Back then he had been terrified of the magnitude of the task at hand, and the possible ramifications should he fail. Yet there had also been a hint of smugness and superiority at being so singled out. He saw now that it wasn’t out of belief that he could do the task which had caused the Dark Lord to allocate it to him. 

The months of increasing fear and stress and terror had eradicated any misplaced sense of pride and worth. They had also made him question his circumstances. They made him wonder at how he could be the one with so much on his shoulders, when his fellow classmates had only to worry about their marks in the Arithmancy exam. His resentment, and the pool of anger and fear which churned in his gut, was acute indeed. 

Although he could easily admit that he wanted nothing to do with Death Eaters, or the war, or his task at hand, he knew that to run and hide now would only be to forfeit his life and that of his parents. He was caught in a tangled web far beyond his capabilities to weave. And so, in spite of the antipathy he felt towards his situation, he had taken precautions to ensure success, should the cabinet not be remedied in time. 

So far his other attempts at striking the headmaster had been misdirected. But Draco felt no remorse for the Gryffindor chaser in the hospital wing, nor was he concerned about the unfortunate case of poisoning which befell one Ronald Weasley. 

Draco knew that when the time came to really go after Albus Dumbledore, it would take more than his current attempts to pull off. In the meantime he could only continue to work at fixing the cabinets and pray for a close to this chapter of his life. He was exhausted from the late hours and the lack of sleep caused by dreams marred by shadows that loomed ever closer and more threatening. 

Raking an agitated hand through the pale strands of his hair, Draco stood tall and rolled his shoulders to release the ever-present tension which creased his neck. 

He threw the plain black robes over his simple and unmarked attire. Ordinarily students wore their house robes around the school. Draco’s were lined with a serpentine green, distinctly showing his Slytherin allegiance. On any normal day, Draco would have proudly worn the robe, but not so today. 

As his rather useless cohorts had begged off assisting him tonight, Draco was reliant on himself to escape the security of the Room of Requirement, to navigate the patrolled hallways and get back to the dungeons without being spotted. He may have been a prefect in his fifth year, but he was no longer and so any sighting of him would be immediately deemed suspicious. 

He didn’t need that kind of attention right now. 

Hence the black robes. They were perfect for concealing that which the small bottle of Polyjuice Potion, currently tucked in his pocket, could not. He fished the small glass bottle from the gathering of fabric and spared a glance for its contents. The look of disgust marred his features at the sight of the brown, gelatinous liquid. Before departing the common room earlier that evening, he had added the final ingredient to the concoction: a single red hair. He had most fortuitously stumbled upon the specimen residing on the desk at which Weasley usually worked during their double potions class. Truthfully, Draco could think of no one in the entire wizarding population whom he would less prefer to look like, but in this instance Weasley would be most useful. He was, after all, a prefect and thus justified in being out of bed after hours. 

With a last sorrowful glance at the liquid, he tipped his head back and swallowed. The effects didn’t take long to become evident. Although Draco was generally considered to be tall, Weasley’s lanky frame seemed to stretch endlessly, and his arms felt long enough to scrape the ground behind him. Understandably, Draco elected to avoid all reflective surfaces as he navigated the high shelves, and followed the path he knew so well back to the exit. 

There was absolutely no way of knowing whether someone was standing in the corridor beyond, so he really had no choice but to pray they were not. Draco had prepared a cover story to remedy such a situation, in any case. Lack of preparation in times of war was ill-advised. And he felt certain that no one of remote intelligence would find it difficult to believe Weasley had gotten lost on his way back from patrol duty. 

Pushing his shoulders back, Draco turned the knob and slipped out into the barely lit corridor beyond. He spared a quick glance back at the wall and noted the way the frame of the door seemed to melt seamlessly into bare wall. The secret place was concealed once more. 

He cast his coolly assessing gaze down the length of corridor, and although this part of the castle afforded very little light, it was sufficient to note his solitude. Draco raked fingers through the short length of his, now much coarser, hair and tried not to notice the smattering of freckles which marred otherwise pale fingers. 

He was just about to heave in a well warranted sigh of relief and stride toward the nearby staircase, when the haunting sound of feet pattering and sliding ahead caught his attention. 

Immediately he pulled back towards the stone wall, willing the pervasive darkness to cloak him in its protective embrace. His gaze was intense as it watched the slight figure careen around the corner. The girl stood in the narrow shaft of moonlight afforded by one of the high, warbled window panes. He would recognise the unruly mane of tangled curls, and the sharp and inquisitive gaze anywhere. At present those eyes were focused on a scrappy piece of parchment against which her pert nose was pressed. 

He watched as Hermione Granger, Potter’s Mudblood ally, glanced up and around as though looking for someone. Him, perhaps. He didn’t like to think of that possibility. 

Draco felt the reckless beating of his heart, which seemed to echo loudly in the corridor at the realisation that he truly was the most unlucky person residing in the entire castle. After all, if there was a soul in the world who could be most relied upon to tell the difference between the real Ron Weasley and himself, it was the wild-haired girl before him. 

Her wide, owlish eyes blinked when she saw him and stole a quick glance back at the parchment before stuffing it back into her robes. The explanation for her sudden appearance and behaviour was beyond his ability to divine. He thought perhaps he ought to have paid more attention to Professor Trelawney’s classes in this instance. He knew only that his entire mission relied on two simple things: deceiving Hermione Granger, and escaping to the dungeons as quickly as possible. 

It was unquestionable that the slightest word out of his mouth would tell her more than she needed to know, and the game would be up. But Draco had come too far for that; he had given up too much. As for managing to bypass the notoriously loquacious Granger without speaking a word in response – that would be a challenge. 

Her silence had seemed encouraging for the split second it had lasted. He knew he looked suspicious, standing stock still and waiting. He could see that she was thinking intently, assessing something in that over-analytical head of hers. He didn’t like to think that she had already figured him out. 

Whatever her thoughts, a decision had clearly been reached for she hurried toward him. 

“Ron!” Her voice was almost scolding and Draco tried to maintain the blank, bovine expression of incomprehension which usually took residence across Weasley’s face. The urge to scowl, however, was difficult to combat. She didn’t appear to need a response, however, and he found that most fortunate. 

“What,” she clutched at her chest, clearly having run here from wherever she had been. “What are you doing here? I thought – I thought you were supposed to be playing chess with Harry?” She peered at him questioningly, and Draco was uncomfortable with the scrutiny. He knew it was ridiculous, but her intent gaze felt as though it could peel through the layers of Weasley and see him standing there. 

She must have read the look of discomfort on his face and misconstrued it. She really didn’t need another person with whom to hold a conversation; she managed quite well on her own. Truth be told, Draco wasn’t remotely surprised by that. He had always found that particularly aspect of her nature infuriating. He was reassessing his previous opinion. 

He glanced longingly at the staircase before looking back at her, a hand rising to scratch the side of his head. 

“Oh.” Her gaze narrowed. “It’s her, isn’t? Lavender.” She glanced behind him as though seeking out the girl she mentioned. “I thought you had broken up.” Her tone wasn’t overly emotive, but the pursed lips said quite enough about her opinion on that front. He groaned internally, unable to believe he had landed himself in the middle of a domestic dispute. 

Squaring his jaw, he muttered something unflattering under his breath and then shook his head vehemently, hands raised in surrender. Incoherency seemed entirely the best option at that moment. 

Draco watched her as she processed that, still disconcerted by the unblinking way she held his gaze. Her eyes were wide and he noted the pink flush that covered her cheek bones, and the way she seemed a little breathless. She really must have run the entire length of the school looking for Weasley, he mused. 

Draco was now acutely aware of the silence building around them, and could do nothing to interfere with it. Granger seemed disinclined as well. He realised, upon glancing back at her, that he had never quite looked at her face for that long. He would recognise her anywhere of course, but there was something about pretending to be someone else which gave one the freedom to be socially unacceptable. She didn’t seem to mind, however, and he took that to mean that Weasley stared at her all the time. That told him something, fairly quickly, about the nature of their relationship. 

He swallowed. Hard. 

She seemed to be watching the bobbing of his throat and took it to mean something else. “That’s okay,” she whispered. “I believe you.” 

On that hushed note she stepped forward. Panic and curiosity welled in his gut, burning his throat and causing his muscles to tense again. She looked rather pretty and vulnerable in the weak light of the corridor and Draco found it strangely exhilarating to have this open view of her. Her lips were parted and she was breathless. There was a fierce light in her eyes before she stepped forward, now impossibly close to him. 

She was much shorter, but her head was tilted so that he could feel the cool rush of her breath tickle his chin. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, a hyper awareness of the sounds of rustling fabric, her absurd closeness and the unexpectedly sweet scent of her hair. He didn’t move, and it was almost physically painful to stay so still when his every instinct said to run. 

And then she kissed him. It was the lightest of touches and even though he had somehow known it would come to this, he wasn’t prepared. He would never be prepared. He pulled back quickly to stare at her. The realisation of a line now crossed sang like a poison in his blood. He was tarnished now, whether by the filth he understood her to be, or the knowledge that she didn’t look or smell or taste like filth at all. 

He knew he might have raised her suspicions, if kissing her was something Weasley did on a daily basis. But that was the sort of thing that Draco couldn’t feint. He knew that he should be hurling hexes, should be running down the hallway. He should be fast on his feet and thinking on his toes. He couldn’t though. All he could think of was the softness of her lips as they brushed his, and the way she looked at him, seeming to see everything. 

He didn’t think anyone had ever looked at him like that. So hopeful. 

And even though in reality he knew that she wasn’t looking at him, he felt a vicarious sort of thrill. Draco was teetering on the edge of something dangerous, an insidious voice whispered in his thoughts. Would it taint him, the memory in the dead of night? Would it haunt him? 

The girl before him, so unaware of what was really happening, leaned in again slowly this time and pressed her palm against the inky black fabric of his robe. Draco felt sure she could feel the erratic beating of his heart clear through the material. It seemed to echo in the corridor and bounce all around him. The silent intake of breath and the rustle of fabric made a rushing symphony of noise disproportionate to their actual volume. The last time he had been so wholly aware of everything around him was the time he kneeled before the Dark Lord to receive his assignment, shaking and terrified. 

There was something about what was happening that felt almost equally momentous. And it wasn’t the doe-eyed girl with the ridiculous mane of curling hair which framed her face. It was the fact that he was still standing there, watching her when he knew he should be gone by now. 

He was standing almost inhumanly still when she leaned toward him again. Her head was tilted toward his, and she stole a last glance through heavy lashes before her lips brushed the corner of his mouth. The caress was the barest whisper of a kiss, but he felt it nonetheless. He felt the warmth of her hand on his heart, felt that heat absorb right into his skin. 

When she kissed him again, her lips clinging to his, instinctively his mouth softened in response. He knew he should have felt disgust at this, but he didn’t. He felt only uncertainty and confusion, and a desire to be that someone that she thought he was - that someone else she wanted. If only for a moment. Her gaze fell on him once more, questioning this time. 

It was so incisive and yet she couldn’t seem to see the burning that roiled through him in that lost moment. Thoughts of what his father might say, what Draco himself would ordinarily have said, passed through his mind and yet his brain could not seem to grasp the strands of clarity these words ought to have brought. 

His weariness, the drawn out exhaustion of the year, had taken its toll on him and he wanted only to yield to the comforting embrace from someone so unlike him. It swayed him. No one need ever know, he thought. 

Except for him. And somehow he knew that the vision of her in that moment would linger in the dark corners of his mind. 

Hesitation plagued his every stilted movement as he lifted his forearms from his side and brushed fingers against her elbows, shifting her closer towards him. And then his lips pressed down to hers, rubbing their softly pliant texture against his own. Her inquisitive fingertips traced patterns across the fabric of his robe, curling into its texture and brushing along his neck before her arms slithered around his nape as an anchor. 

It was wrong, and yet the unsettling fear that she would realise who he was and run seared him. Instinctively, he tugged her small frame closer. Her mouth opened beneath his and the deft brush of her tongue was dizzying. Draco’s palms ran the length of hers and moved over her shoulders. One came to rest on the fragile line of her collar bone, the other moulded her nape and the back of her head. 

Her hair was deceptively soft, he thought. Not the mangled bush he had always visualised. When her head seemed to nuzzle against the weight of his hand, the trust implicit in the action caused a swooping in his abdomen. 

The urge to squeeze her closer was overpowering. The desire to maintain the warm heat of her body and the comfort it presented was almost impossible to ignore. And the sweet invitation to touch and to hold what he shouldn’t caused the muscles in his stomach to clench, his groin to tighten. But he was too far gone to care. 

Her pillowy mouth nibbled at the outer corner of his own, tugging at the swell of his lower lip, requesting access once more. Draco shouldn’t have been so shocked at her initiative. If he actually stopped to think about it, he thought it highly unlikely that Weasley would ever aggressively go after what he wanted. 

And though he wore Weasley’s skin, in the very twisted frame of mind he was in, he wanted Granger’s body to recognise the difference – even when her mind could not. His hand tightly gripped her hip, directing her backward until she collided painfully with the stone wall behind her. His jaw was clenched as he watched her eyes snap open, her lips parted with the heady expulsion of breath. He stood over her then, fingers biting into her skin. He wanted, somehow, for her to feel the turmoil he felt and to punish her for it. 

His forehead lowered to press against her own, and a rush of unattainable air passed between them. She gasped when he pressed his hips to hers and it thrilled him to know she could feel him throbbing against her stomach. Somewhere along the way he had decided that if he was going to live in a hell of his own making, for the sin he committed now, he might as well be thorough about it. 

Her eyes fluttered closed for a second and he watched the bobbing of her throat, its pale column illuminated in the weak moonlight. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips, parted. He knew the image would haunt him. When her lashes lifted and her liquid dark eyes stared intently into his own, he could have sworn he saw a challenge in them. She tugged the fabric at his collar, pulling him back down to meet her mouth in a kiss that was heady and toxic and breath-stealing. He gripped her hair, exposing her throat and held her fiercely tight. 

Without invitation his fingers eased up from her hip, seeking the edge of fabric which concealed her bare skin. When his knuckles finally grazed the heated expanse of stomach, he felt her muscles clenching beneath his touch. His fingers slid against the vital warmth of her skin, soaking it in and letting it run over him. It thawed the all consuming numbness. She tasted like the sweetness of treacle tart and she was both soft and firm and vibrantly alive. He wanted to greedily absorb all of her. 

The acknowledgement had him throbbing harder still. She pulled her head back and through puffy lips muttered, “I ... I want...”   
Then she kissed him once more. Her hands were tugging at the various layers of fabric bunched within her grasp, and he took her to mean she wanted it removed. He was most amenable to that request. 

Draco knew he should have cared that they were in a school hallway, unconscionably close to the Room of Requirement. He knew she should have too, and if he were able to think more clearly he might have wondered at that. Granger had never struck him as especially adventurous. And she shared a common room with Weasley - there were a great many more comfortable places for such an entanglement to occur. 

He ignored the thought and shrugged the robe off his shoulders, allowing her to assist with the buttons of his shirt. The frantic nature of her tugging made him dizzy with want. And when she finally spread small and eager hands against the expanse of his chest, the heat of her touch burnt a trail across his skin. He wanted to kiss her again, to feel the velvety touch of her tongue against his and to taste the sweet warmth once more. But she ducked her head and stared intently at her hands as they traced a path, moving in swirling circles until she pressed her palm above his heart. Her fingers spread and he watched as she pressed a tender kiss between them, brushing his skin and increasing the erratic rhythm that beat below. She whispered something soft and wistful, but he was much too distracted to catch it. 

He knew only that he feared the tendrils of warmth and comfort that curled around him at her gentleness. Seeming to snap out of her reverie, Granger glanced back up at him and pressed a light kiss to his lips before she squirmed away from him and the wall against which she had been pressed. He was dumbfounded as questing fingers reached for his own and began to tug at him, pulling him back down the corridor. He watched only her and not where they were headed. She stopped then and pressed a kiss to his fingers before dropping them. It wasn’t until he watched her pacing, and saw the rectangular outline emerge from the stone wall that he realised what she had done. 

A swirling pool of horror and unmitigated shock flooded his senses. Did she know? Regardless, he knew it was too late for him to walk away then, he had to see this to its ending. Whatever that would be. 

He followed her into the room and recognition penetrated the fog of desire and shock. It wasn’t the Room of Hidden Things, but one he had been in nonetheless. The clear expanse of space, the walls covered with shelves and hefty tomes, and the vast array of enormous coloured cushions which littered the plushly-carpeted floor were all familiar. This had been the place where Dumbledore’s Army, a vigilante group of which Hermione Granger had been a part, had held their meetings in his fifth year. He knew this because he had been a member of Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad, which had raided the room and caught them in the act. 

It had not been a full year since that day and yet it seemed a lifetime had passed. 

Draco walked further into the room, dropping his robe by the door as it swung closed. He watched as she moved deftly about the space, whispering words of magic to light the small, bare wicks. Orange light glowed from the flames which licked the waxen moulds. 

When she had finished she turned to look at him and he could see the uncertainty coursing through her. It was evident by the furrowing of her brow and the way her hands were knotted together. It was clear to Draco now, how it would end. And he wondered how he had gotten to be in this place, with her. He wondered at the ease with which he had fallen into it. 

She stood by the cushions, fully dressed, but the mussed nature of her hair and the still present flush of her cheeks lingered. He didn’t want her to change her mind, to let sense and logic mar the moment. Because it was pretty clear to him now that though something was happening between her and Weasley, this was something new. 

A disturbed and twisted part of him revelled in that truth. 

She seemed to be reaching for something to say, and he saw the danger in that pretty quickly. He walked toward her, noting the way she gnawed at the side of her lip and the way her eyes tracked his movement. 

“I’m not,” she paused and looked around awkwardly, “I haven’t... before.” 

“Yes, I... know.” The words fell from his lips in the barest whisper and she seemed appeased by that. He thought it odd that she would tell him. Surely Weasley knew as much. Then again, he had never seemed all that astute at picking up signals. 

He stopped in front of her, his gaze drinking in every detail of her features. She seemed to have left her bravery behind her in the protective blanket of darkness the corridor afforded. He liked it better now. He wanted to see her. 

His finger lifted to brush a brief caress across her cheek, enjoying the flood of colour which chased the movement. She was nothing if not responsive. He should have known; their reactions to one another had always been volatile. 

Draco shook his head at the thought and bent to hold her gaze. His fingers brushed the line of her jaw and down the column of her neck. They moved across the woollen fabric of her jumper and traced lower. He knew his stare was merciless. He greedily soaked in her tremulous response when his thumb brushed across the covered tip of her breast before pausing briefly at the fabric’s edge. Her wet and pink tongue swiped involuntarily against the seam of her mouth and he watched that too. 

He found her obedience when she lifted her arms to assist in the removal of the jumper amusing, and so unlike her. She was wearing one of the lace covered muggle contraptions he had heard about. Draco couldn’t help but feel a momentary appreciation for their workmanship when he eyed the pebbled, pink nipple half concealed by the scrap of fabric. The bud seized and tightened beneath his gaze and he longed, most fervently, to feel its velvety texture. 

He glanced quickly at her and she nodded her head a little shakily. He grinned at that and she looked a little surprised. His open palms caressed the joint of her neck and collarbone, running slowly up and over the delicate bones beneath. His finger brushed the fluttering pulse in her neck and he paused to inspect, mouth brushing the tender spot. He felt her jump suddenly, felt the increased rhythm of its quivering movement and traced circles over the skin with the tip of his tongue. She tasted sweet, and the gentle bouquet which rose from her hair and pierced his senses was unnerving. 

He lifted his head again and quelled the desire to smirk at the parted lips and flushed cheeks which greeted him. Her eyes fluttered open again when his flat palms lowered to the tops of her breasts, her anticipation written clear across her features. He could feel her heartbeat now and was relieved to know it was just as erratic as his own. He cupped his hands around the gentle weight of her breasts then, his thumbs moving to brush tauntingly against the sensitive tips. She quivered. 

He took the opportunity to kneel before her on the thick ply of the cushion below, before he pressed the side of his face against the searing heat of her stomach. She gasped at that. She gasped again when his hands settled at the back of her knees and he pressed hot, open mouthed kisses over her abdomen and back up to the lacy confection. 

She mumbled something inconsequential and he felt the shaking of her legs when his mouth closed over the sheer fabric that covered her nipple. The wet cavern of his mouth, and his inquisitive tongue moulded the fine fabric to her skin. He pulled back and blew out cool air, enjoying the way the sensitive pink bud puckered in response. 

“Take it off,” he whispered in something akin to a command, and he knew that under other circumstances she probably would have balked at the demanding tone. Instead her nod was distracted as she fumbled behind her back. She found the clasp quickly, and he relished the chance to brush the interfering item from her person. Draco could see, quite plainly from the pink flush that had risen across her chest, that she was both aroused and embarrassed. It was a heady combination to witness, he decided. 

He turned his attention back to the eager peaks awaiting his attention, and revelled in the small and sharp intake of breath when his tongue laved them once more. He tugged mercilessly on the point, and then soothed the taught skin with soft kisses. She squirmed delightfully and he decided that he wanted to see and touch and taste more of her. He wanted to imprint every reaction firmly in his memory, for he knew that nothing like this would ever happen again. 

Tugging slightly, he gestured for her to kneel too. On wobbly legs, she did just that. However, her acquiescence and general docility ended there. She braced her hands against his chest and pushed him flat on his back, electing to take residence astride him. When he felt her thighs quivering on either side of him, and the slick texture of her knickers pressed against his bare skin, he very nearly came. And when, apparently enjoying this response, she wiggled again, he took a very firm grip of her hips and sternly shook his head. 

He should have known better than that, her innate curiosity and inability to walk away from a challenge clearly had her piqued. Something devious curved the side of her mouth and she lowered her head to press warm and wet lips to his flat, male nipple. She was rewarded quickly with a muttered expletive and the jolting of his body in response. Her palms spread across the taut muscles in his abdomen, and she pressed her lips to his again. The kiss was hungrier this time, the tentativeness having evaporated with mutual and increasing need. When he felt the undulation of her hips against him again, and heard the small breathy sounds she made between kisses, he braced her to him and rolled them over. 

She was obviously surprised by the manoeuvre, but it was painfully clear to Draco that if he didn’t take charge of the situation, he was liable to come in his pants. A most unsatisfactory outcome, he mused, because at that moment he wanted nothing more than to be inside her when it happened. He wanted to feel the slick and welcoming heat of her around him. 

He was nestled now, so conveniently, between the soft white slopes of her thighs. To take advantage of the situation he distracted her with a quick nip at her collarbone, and ran eager hands over the length of exposed leg beneath her prim skirt. His questing fingers circled higher and he felt her hips lift against his in eager anticipation. He lifted his head and pushed up on one elbow, eyes firmly on her. He was positive he would never forget the look on her face when his thumb first brushed the moist fabric, which clung to her folds. She looked exquisitely tormented and he wondered how he had never known before quite how he wanted to be the one to cause that look. He knew it now. 

She would, for a time, think back on this moment believing him to be Ronald Weasley, her best friend who took her virginity. She would work it out, eventually, at least enough to establish that it wasn’t Weasley but some mysterious other. But even then Draco felt a little bitter to know that he was undoubtedly the last person she would expect, or wish, to give herself up to. Still, he wanted it to be good for her, which was shocking in itself. He had only ever been a selfish person. He had always known that and had never been particularly concerned by the fact. 

The shifting nature of his thoughts and the vision of her coming undone beneath him, however, were of great concern. 

Dispelling the thoughts which were far too burdensome for a moment like that, he focused instead on the task which was quite literally to hand. Her eyes squeezed closed and she wriggled her hips in response to the solitary finger that brushed teasingly along the edge of her cotton underwear. When it did slip beneath the fabric to stroke against her opening, the pink and puffy folds parted to reveal the moisture which had gathered. 

Draco breathed out loudly through his nose, eyes glued shut as a shuddering wave of heat moved through him. He pressed firmly against her hip, the pressure building so sweetly intolerable. He kissed her then, catching the opening of her mouth as his thumb moved teasingly closer to that small bundle of nerves it sought. His tongue brushed against hers and he revelled once more at the way her hips sought further friction against his hand. 

Jaw clenched, and muscles aquiver, he curled one finger and pressed it slowly inside her. She gasped at that, and he felt light-headed from the sheer feel of her. He knew without a doubt that he wouldn’t last long. The musky cloud of her arousal was intoxicating, and the small noises she made, asking for something she was unable to give voice to, almost did him in. 

He was pretty certain, at that point, that he’d die if she didn’t touch him. And he told her as much, in whispered tones which tickled her ear. Her uncertainty and her eagerness were obvious, so he rose to one knee and worked on the fastening of his pants, his other hand lazily stroking her. Her eyes widened through the fog as she watched the deft movements of his hands, before brushing them away. He found that reaction rather gratifying.

Her palm pressed into the opening of his trousers and moved against his heated length, and he jerked, becoming harder. Physically speaking, he was fairly certain his level of need had by-passed certain limits of possibility. And that was before she slipped her hand beneath the final layer of fabric and freed him from all constraints. A momentary realisation that what she was touching was in fact not his gave him pause, but she called his attention back with embarrassing ease. 

When her gentle fingers brushed a first caress against his unclothed erection, he thought perhaps he wouldn’t mind just coming in her hands. They were, he discovered, very capable ones at that. She seemed enthralled by the catches in his breath and the rumbles in his throat, for each time he made a sound she looked up to catch his expression. 

It was painfully clear to him that if things continued in their present state, they wouldn’t get too far, and he wanted more than anything to press himself deep within her. So with that thought in mind, Draco summoned all residual self-restraint to sweep her hands away. When she indicated her displeasure at this, he scooped her wrists in one palm and pressed them to the ground over head, and kissed her pouted mouth. 

“I won’t last if you keep... doing that.” His words were cracked and she seemed to tremble from hearing them. He brushed his thumb against her small nub once more and, from the muffled whimper in response, he assumed he had her sufficiently distracted. When he pressed a second finger inside of her, the resounding response was urgent and louder. 

“Now,” she choked, “please, I need... now.” 

“What?” He whispered in response. “What do you need?” 

Her head thrashed to the side and her rhythm against the heel of his palm never ceased. He knew, acutely, what it was that she wanted. But he had to hear her say it, though Merlin knew, he’d probably come from that alone. The thought of having Hermione Granger whisper that she wanted him to fuck her was entirely too enticing to forego. It would be the ultimate submission, and she wouldn’t even know it. 

“Ugh... you know.” She pressed her wrist over her eyes. “Don’t make me... say it.” 

He curled his fingers within her tauntingly, and pressed his thumb against the bundle of nerves, causing her to buck in response. 

“Well?” His words were a whisper but he knew she heard them well enough. He tugged at the fleshy lobe of her ear, before repeating the word again. 

“Inside me... I want you inside me, damn it.” He pressed his eyes closed, lips still brushing against her neck, and he fought for air and clarity. He would be lucky if he lasted ten seconds inside her. 

After a few necessary seconds he nodded, and kissed her. A hand moved to stroke one flushed, pink nipple, whilst the other eased from her folds to guide his hardened length toward her. 

He breathed deeply because he knew it would hurt her, but taking it slowly would make all the difference. He just wasn’t entirely certain he had that sort of strength in him at that moment. And he wasn’t completely sure why he cared one way or another, but in that heated moment somehow he did. The first nudge of his length inside of her, moving only the slightest of margins, caused him to groan from the tremendous tightness of her clenching him. 

He moved slower still, eyes closing involuntarily before he felt her squirming. His eyes flew open and he held hers. 

“Breathe,” he whispered and held her thigh firm in one hand, her breast in the other. 

“But,” she mumbled, discomfort evident across her features. He pressed his mouth to hers, the kiss building in intensity. He wasn’t sure she realised how she was shifting and accommodating him. But she was, and he pushed in further still. And then he was moving, and she was moving too. His mind tripped at the feeling of her around him, her bare breasts brushing against his chest as he built a rhythm. His muscles clenched as he pulled out, and pushed back in. The greediness of her body clutching at him, trying to hold him in place had him teetering on the edge. 

He wouldn’t last he knew, and the sounds which fell from her lips made it no easier in retaining any semblance of self-control. The hand still clutching her thigh slid across the smooth expanse of skin, moving to meet the seam where they joined. She cried out when he touched her again. The combination of him inside of her, and friction against the most sensitive part of her was too much. 

The quivering of her thighs started it all - a pulsating which wracked her body, causing her to clench around him when he thrust inside her that final time. The sound that ripped from his throat was inhuman and the sheer intensity of his orgasm felt like an explosion to the brain. 

He collapsed on top of her then, his mind sluggish and his bones heavy. All he knew was the slick feel of her still beneath him, the warmth of her hands around his back and the sweet, sweet scent of her skin which stayed with him a few moments longer. 

He detangled himself from her limbs and rolled over then, staring up at the ornate detail of the ceiling which had not caught his attention in the heat of everything earlier. He wanted to say something, but could think of nothing appropriate. And anyway, he still couldn’t risk talking in above a broken whisper for fear of her realisation. 

He had to leave though, he knew that much. The post-coital awkwardness was setting in, and he knew she needed someone who would stay there and hold her hand. He wasn’t that someone. And the Polyjuice Potion was uncomfortably close to wearing off. He couldn’t risk it. 

So he sat up and started gathering his clothes. She did the same, and the silence was impenetrable. He tried not to watch her, to absorb every detail. But the rumpled state of her hair and the sway of her movement made him wonder whether he could ever really readjust his thoughts. 

It made him wonder what it was, precisely, that made him better. He used to know. He used to be so certain. But wasn’t quite so clear anymore, because she didn’t look like any less of a person than he, she didn’t taste any less. And yet all of his life he had been told that that was exactly what she was. Less. 

It took Draco a moment to realise she was staring back at him. There was something sad and yet wistful in the expression, which caused his gut to clench. He stared at her for a moment, before spinning on his heel. The time to leave had long since gone. 

He stopped again, though, when he heard her whispered words. They were spoken in the softest of tones and he wasn’t entirely certain they were even intended for his ears. 

“Harry was right all along,” she mused. “About your being here,” she whispered, “spending time in the Room of Requirement. It’s for him, isn’t it?” 

The breath caught in his throat and he turned slowly to stare at her. 

“But no matter what he says, I didn’t... didn’t think you were like them. Not completely beyond redemption.” She blinked furiously. “I wanted to be sure...” 

The buzzing noise in his head grew louder. He wanted to lash out and call her bluff, but the intensity in her expression and the lingering sadness told him she wasn’t lying. She knew it was him all along. The realisation made the floor fall beneath him. He truly didn’t understand. 

His voice cracked when he did speak, whether from fear or anger or shock, he wasn’t certain. “How did you know?” 

She shrugged and pulled the worn looking scrap of parchment from her robes. “There are ways.” 

He had no idea what she meant by that but she clearly did have ways since she had him pegged from the first. His initial thought was to demand more information about how she had figured him out, before he realised a far more crucial question. 

“Why?” 

She glanced back at him and her expression was intent again, but she seemed to struggle with framing the words. “I wanted you to see that things aren’t necessarily the way you always... thought.” She seemed to be gesturing to herself when she said that. “And I wanted to give you a reason...” 

He stared at her without breathing and watched the bobbing of her throat as she swallowed. 

“What?” His tone was harsh and defensive. 

“A reason to change your mind... to do the right thing.” She stared at him, pausing in her statement. The feeling of being watched so closely occurred to him again, only this time he knew she saw the real him. 

The tingling sensation and the feeling of muscles moving beneath his skin told him that the effects of the potion had worn off. Despite everything that had just happened between them, he felt more exposed than ever before. There would be no hiding from the secrets in this room now. 

She was watching him carefully, like one would eye a scared animal ready to flee. Her concern was warranted. He wanted nothing more than to forget, to go back to yesterday when she was just a Mudblood and of no concern at all. He tensed as she stepped closer. “I’m hoping you will,” she whispered, letting the words hang. 

Her body was close to his again, and her gentle warmth lingered in the air around them. Draco’s jaw clenched and his gaze narrowed instinctively when she reached for his right arm. He made to pull away, suddenly acutely aware that he shouldn’t be allowing her to touch him. It wasn’t pretend anymore. The memory would be more than the intangible hidden thing that lurked in the darkest crevices of his mind. 

He had tasted her mouth, pressed deep into her slick walls and felt her come around him. And she had known it was him all along, had chosen him. It was utterly unfathomable. 

Her grip on his wrist didn’t loosen and although a hard yank from him would have been sufficient, he stayed still and watched her. Eyes that were deep and bright and haunting glanced up at him, before looking back at their quarry. Her small hands pushed back the sleeve of his shirt and she stared intensely at the black mark which had been burnt into his flesh the summer before. Draco watched as she blinked furiously in response to the sight which he knew must have shocked her with its sharp truth. 

She swallowed then, seeming to gather whatever thoughts had scattered, and moved swiftly to press soft lips against his once more. They didn’t wait for a response, or a reaction. Because just as quickly her mouth was gone, and so was she. 

And he was all alone again. 

He didn’t move once she’d left the room for many long moments. The only sign that she had been there at all was the lingering floral scent of her hair and a swooping sensation in his stomach. 

 

*** 

 

He would think about that night for a long time to come. He would reflect upon her words and the look in her eyes the moment that she said them. He would think about it that night when he stood on the top of the astronomy tower with his wand held aloft and a decision hanging in the balance. 

He would think that he wished he had the kind of faith in humanity, however broken, that she seemed to have. The kind of faith in him. It was funny how one hour could change so many things. 

And yet, he would think again after the damage was done – by another’s hand and not his own – that there were some things it couldn’t change.


End file.
